


Pretend

by shyday



Category: Necessary Roughness
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Call a cab,' he says again, and again TK shakes his head. Nico has the sudden urge to punch him in his stubborn, shadowed face."  Following on "Stay," NicoStyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Another piece of shameless self-indulgence, this one following directly on the heels of “Stay.” (You’d probably benefit from reading that story first.) It turned out to be tinted a little more for us DaNico ‘shippers than I’d originally intended, but Nico’s stray thoughts are what ultimately directed the path of this story. It’s set earlier in the show - during the Hawks years, clearly – but, as has been said, Nico seemed to know what he wanted far before Dani did. I didn’t plan to, but he kinda made it go all OTP.
> 
> As always, I make no money because they don’t belong to me.

 

 

He doesn’t want to be here.

 

The lights of the club strobe over Nico’s skin, the pulsing bass of the music banging up against the relentless beat in his head. His injured side streaks a whispered fire across his midsection every time he takes a breath. It’s hot in here, writhing bodies sucking up all the air in the windowless room; he’s starting to feel decidedly nauseous. He works to keep any hint of this off of his face.

 

Not that anyone’s looking at him, or would be able to decipher his expression if they did. Not here in the shadows, dark corners where the flashes of light serve only to confuse. Muddled angles and imaginary lines, impossible to get a clear picture even of the person next to you in all these mixed signals of stimuli. He closes his eyes for a moment. The lights continuing to throb in the blindness of his brain.

 

Nico drags his eyes back open, automatically surveying the big room. Maybe he should just call Xeno, have him come take over for the night. It doesn’t look like he’ll be needed anyway, the mood of the crowd upbeat and friendly as they continue to dance to the fast-tempo sound. Maybe if he goes home now, he’ll actually be able to sleep.

 

The big man at the door tonight is a regular contact, this being a club favored by many of the Hawks. He’d texted earlier to let Nico know that tonight the space was being shared with some of the players from the Jersey Jaguars, a rivalry known to turn somewhat ugly in the past. No problems yet, but the information had been worth forty bucks when Nico had slipped past him and into the building an hour later. Two-thirds of his job is preventing issues before they came up; people like Reynolds are invaluable in this endeavor, and he cultivates them wherever he can.

 

He takes a drink of the water waiting on the high table beside him, willing the endless headache to ease. It probably doesn’t help that he hasn’t eaten anything today, food neither appealing nor fitting into the list of things he’d needed to get done. The car had been a disaster, and seen in the light of morning he’d despaired of ever getting the dark stains out of his creamy upholstery. It had taken several hours and some serious additional compensation – labor costs, his guy had said with a smirking shrug – but the results were just short of miraculous in his mind. Well worth the extra cash.

 

After that, a couple of appointments he couldn’t get out of, and a quiet visit to the Hawks’ team doctor after he knew the offices had mostly emptied out for the day. That trip had earned him twenty shiny black stitches and a half-hearted lecture about not coming in sooner, though the doctor had seemed to recognize the pointlessness of the speech and had at least kept it short. He hadn’t planned to go in at all, but by mid-afternoon he couldn’t deny the red still seeping slowly through the white bandage at his side. In the end there was little choice – after all the money he’d spent on the car, he wasn’t about to ruin the good work by damaging it all over again.  

 

He supposes he ought to force something down, to at least try and combat some of yesterday’s blood loss. The thought flips his stomach, the nausea surging dangerously up toward his throat. The air of the room flexes around him, and he has to steady himself on the table, his fingers locked tightly around the glass in his hand.

 

When the room settles – a relative term, in this place of people and noise and flashing, disorienting light - he sets the glass back on the table and reaches into his coat pocket for his phone. He’s working mostly left-handed today, the stitches pulling uncomfortably any time he tries to move his right arm, but he forgets that he’s already shifted his phone to the other side and spends a few fumbling moments trying to find it in its usual pocket. There’s a brief rush of adrenaline when he can’t immediately locate it, the fear that he’s somehow misplaced it increasing the awkwardness of his groping. Now he remembers that it’s resting safely inside the other lapel, and his fingers close around it with a burst of tired annoyance. He’d moved it so he could get to it more easily.

 

The backlit screen is bright in this corner, despite the competing lights of the club; Nico absently notes that he’s already been here for an hour and a half. So far the few opposing players he can see in the crowd have been content to enjoy their own company, and don’t seem to be at risk of mixing - hazardously or otherwise. It would probably be harmless to take the rest of the night off. Especially if he can get Xeno down here to keep an eye on things.

 

He’s staring blankly at an empty text box, cursor waiting patiently for his words, when a dark hand waves for attention in the space between his eyes and his phone. Nico looks up into the grinning features of TK, a scowl darting over his own face at his failure to notice the other man’s approach.

 

“Nico, my man,” TK shouts, loudly enough to be heard over the music. “What’s up? You look like you’re having even less fun than usual.”

 

“Just waiting for you to do something stupid,” he hears himself say.

 

TK hears it too, and his smile only gets more amused. “Come on, man, that’s not fair. I got no trouble with nobody. Just looking to have a good time.”

 

“So go do that,” Nico says. “Somewhere else.”

 

Now the smile flickers, or maybe it’s just a trick of the strobing lights. “Shit, what crawled up your ass tonight, Nico? Just trying to make conversation.”

 

Nico sighs silently, an exhale lost under the noise of the room. “Been a long day, TK. Not really in the mood for conversation. Especially one that has to be shouted to be heard.”

 

TK’s looking him over, and Nico finds himself reflexively shifting his supporting elbow off the small table to stand up straight. The sutured gash in his side protests at even this small effort. He’s confidant TK can’t tell.

 

“Okay, man, I get that,” TK finally says. “Hell, I only stopped by on my way to the bar. Got a fine lady waiting for me back on the dance floor…”

 

“And you decided you needed to get her drunk first?”

 

“Haha. The lady was thirsty, and I aim to please. Chicks dig a gentleman. Or so Doctor D keeps trying to drill into my head.”

 

An image of her cowering away from him on her own living room floor, rising so fast and unexpected that for an instant he thinks he’s going to throw up. Her small body curled in on itself, radiating fear.

 

Fear of him.

 

“Whoa, Nico – where’d you go?” TK’s asking over the music, and he fights to bring his attention back to the club. He shakes his head, an attempt to banish both the image and the moment, a brush off of TK’s sudden interest. The song playing overhead slides seamlessly into the rhythm of the next.

 

“Don’t you have company waiting?” Nico asks, distracting him with a nod to the dance floor. TK’s still studying him, far too intently for this late hour and their dimly-lit surroundings, but after a minute he shrugs, the smile lightening his face once again.

 

“That I do, my man, that I do.” And he’s off toward the bar with only a backward wave.

 

Nico’s eyes trail him across the room, his arm coming up again to borrow the stability of the tall table. Not that anything in here is particularly steady – the longer the combined assault of irregular light and deafening noise continues its relentless barrage, the more his balance is being called into question. Colors squirm in surreal reflections at the corners of his sight, his headache a tightening band around his brain. This packed room feels about thirty degrees too warm, tiny beads of sweat slithering their way slippery down his spine.

 

He needs to call Xeno.

 

He really doesn’t want to be here.

 

The phone is still waiting in his hand, its rounded edge pressing smooth into his palm; he brings it back up to where he can see the screen, the silent cursor still waiting for instruction. The thumping air around him is making it difficult to decide what he wants to say. He can see TK’s shaved head over by the bar, the lights flickering off his skin. He wonders if Dani’s fallen asleep yet.

 

Now where did _that_ thought come from, he wonders.

 

Nico frowns, focuses his eyes on the tiny screen. His mouth is dry and gummy despite all the water; his tongue flicks over lips that feel close to cracking. Text Xeno, make it home. Tomorrow’s Sunday. With the bye this week, maybe he’ll even be able to sleep in.

 

Barring any Saturday night catastrophes, that is.

 

But it’s as if his thoughts alone are enough to summon trouble, and his head comes up fast when a sharp voice arcs over the heavy bass. It’s lost again in an instant, swallowed up by all the sound, and he scans the packed group to try and find its source. All seems as it should be, just people having a good time, and he’s about to write it off as nothing when a knot forms conspicuously at the edge of the crowd. Nico curses when he recognizes at least one familiar face in the area, a linebacker named Lennox who’s only just recently been signed.

 

Stowing his phone back in his pocket, he starts to make his way through the crush of bodies between here and there. He can see two men who look like Security heading in on the group from the other side of the room; now the floor dips slightly and he loses his vantage over the mass of heads bouncing in time to the music. He works through the press of jostling dancers, his left arm protectively in front to forge an imitation of a path. It’s a struggle to break through the mob, every inch gained an effort. By the time he gets to the site of the disruption, he’s breathing more heavily than he’d like.

 

Things have escalated when he gets there, the crowd dumping him out into a small ring as those nearby begin to pick up on the drama. Most of the floor is still moving obliviously to the steady beat, but the disagreement is starting to attract notice, the taste of tension filtering into the air. Nico can’t hear what’s being said, but here’s Lennox and McCann, toe-to-toe with a couple of Jaguar players he recognizes from the sidelines at a game a few weeks past. There’d almost been trouble that day too, he remembers now, the stirrings of something that was swiftly put down before the reporters milling could sniff anything out. Threats of punishment unfulfilled; raging emotions cut short and left with nowhere to go.

 

Security’s closing in fast on the other side of the group; Nico comes up behind the Hawks players, looking to his own responsibilities. His hand on Lennox’s shoulder is angrily shrugged off without a glance. Nico grabs him again, digging his fingers into the thick muscle and refusing to let go.

 

“Outside. Now,” he snarls into the younger man’s ear, having no patience for this display. Lennox is surprised enough to look in his direction; Security is swooping up the other antagonists before the Hawks’ linebacker can turn back around. Nico notes this as he gets McCann’s attention, gesturing with his head for them both to follow him to the door. He starts to walk away, expecting them to be right behind; he doesn’t care if their decision is made based on his reputation or the dark expression he can feel on his face. All that matters is that they follow.

 

The cool night air feels like magic when he steps out of the door, the way it settles over his skin to douse him in its relief, and he takes as deep of a breath as he can in its freshness. The music from inside is smothered into a dull throb as the heavy door swings closed behind him, but it echoes undaunted in his ears against the stillness of the rest of neighborhood. A moment later it swells again as the players obediently exit, the deep bass shoving them out into the street. Nico moves a handful of steps away from the door and down the block, away from Reynolds and the line forming in the other direction. Too many curious faces, anxious to involve themselves in the business of celebrity no matter how minor. He leads the two men a little farther, around the brick corner of the building.

 

He doesn’t have to prompt them for an explanation, their excuses tumbling over each other before he can find the energy to demand them. Away from the weighted, oppressive air of the club, he’s starting to feel extremely light-headed. Floaty. He really should have taken the time to eat something at some point today. Nico holds up a hand, silencing them immediately. “Save it,” he says, his words sounding rough in his ears. “I’m not in the mood. Get out of here. Go home.”

 

Lennox looks like he’s going to protest, but a hand on his arm and a small shake of the head from McCann seem to change his mind. He shuts his mouth at least, which, at this moment, is all that Nico wants. Well, that and his bed, with twelve hours uninterrupted to sleep this discomfort away. He acknowledges McCann’s help with his eyes, before turning away from them to survey the quiet area of this tiny side street they’re on.

 

“How’d you two get here? You need a driver to take you back?” He reaches into his pocket for his phone, finds it immediately this time. The bruise on his jaw aches, just now deciding to lend its voice to the chorus in his tired body. He’d forgotten about it, inconsequential in all the rest of the pain. It annoys him, an added insult more than anything else.

 

The text on his lock screen squiggles before his eyes, not helping his mood while he waits for their answer. The perspiration along his hairline is drying cold in the soft nighttime breeze. He realizes his hand is trembling, ever so slightly, and he tightens his grip on the phone to cut off the tremor before it’s seen.

 

Nico’s got his back to the way they came, a careless mistake only recognized when he hears footsteps approaching from behind. It’s two of the Jaguar players from inside – of _course_ it is, he thinks, standing between them and his guys. It was stupid to think this thing would have dissipated so easily.

 

“Get out of the way,” one of them says, and later there’s a small retrospective part of him that will wish he had listened. Because this is the point where things go wrong, there’s no doubt. The second night in a row that veers unexpectedly around a sharp bend into pain.

 

The bigger man tries to brush him aside; Nico has his arm twisted up behind his back before anyone else can react. Unfortunately this spurs both the friend and the Hawks players into action, a melee blur of large bodies and even larger tempers. He swings the guy he’s holding up against the wall, trying to separate them and get this mess under control. He feels at least a couple of stitches give. It distracts him for an instant, and he misses the fist heading swiftly his way.

 

He honestly can’t say who it comes from – in the jumbled scuffle it could very well have been friendly fire. But it lands hard and definite above the gash in his side, and for a moment he can neither breathe nor see. Just a flash flood of cold white, electric fire radiating from the point of contact outward to envelop his brain. Now comes the heat and the pain, and a smeared vision of sidewalk and booted feet. The struggle to get enough air into his lungs.

 

There’s a lot of movement around him, and he fights to blink it into a cohesive picture. Reynolds and two other men coming in to break things up, angry faces and shouted insults from the players who still want to do battle. They’re pulling the other guys away, dragging them off through sheer force of will; Nico’s working hard to stay on his feet – aided in no small part by the brick wall beside him – but he catches the look Reynolds gives him, the one asking if he’ll be able to control these other two. When he manages a nod, Reynolds leaves to return to his place at the door.

 

A relative quiet descends again over their tiny side street, broken only by the sounds of their uneven breathing.

 

Or maybe that’s just him. He can’t seem to get enough air between the waves of pain spiraling out from his side, trying to keep in the presence of the others from gulping for it desperately like a man drowning. Forcing his head up to face them sends everything into a spin, something he pretends he can ignore. Nico shifts so the back of his head rests against the wall, working to find some sort of stability in all this imaginary motion.

 

“All right?” he gets out, not entirely sure it’s intelligible. Lennox gives him a somewhat sheepish nod, despite the trickling blood that he swipes from his nose. It smears a little over his upper lip, a dark new mustache in the night’s deep shadows. McCann’s flexing his hand through what could be bruised knuckles or a damaged wrist, but on the whole he seems unharmed. He doesn’t complain, and Nico decides he doesn’t care. He just wants them out of here.

 

Just wants to go home.

 

But at the moment he’s not even sure he can make it to his car, the world flatly refusing to remain still. He has to get these two out of here before he throws up or passes out, neither of which he’s willing to let them be witnesses to. “Go home,” he tells them for the second time, his voice barely rising above a low growl.

 

He barely notices when they leave him there, something in his tone giving them no thought but to obey. The brick is cool and comfortingly solid behind him, and he lets his heavy eyes close for a moment against the streetlamp’s streaking white. He knows he needs to move, but he’s having trouble remembering where he parked; he still can’t grab a deep enough breath, every attempt exploding into brilliant sparkles against the darkness behind his eyelids.

 

The part of his mind that’s still working points out that right now he feels very close to as bad off as he did last night, when blood loss and vertigo had forced him to pull over before he ended up crashing the car. He hadn’t planned to stop for more than a minute then either, certainly hadn’t intended for her to find him in front of her house. But things had slipped away from him and he’d lost more time than he meant to. Something that can’t happen out here, around the corner from a crowded late-night club.

 

Nico pushes his eyes open, trying to figure out where he is.

 

His skin tugs at his shirt as he takes another breath, and the fingers that press lightly there come back unsurprisingly slick with blood. He’s ripped a few stitches out after all, it seems, a fist fight not high on the list of recommended activities for recovery. He tries dully to recall if there’s something in his trunk that he can use to protect his upholstery. Whenever he finally manages to track down the car.

 

It occurs to him again to call Xeno, but now he realizes he must have dropped his phone. His eyes wander over the sidewalk, finding it a few feet away. Even from here he can tell it’s damaged, the light glinting off a pattern of tiny cracks spider webbing across the small screen. A wash of exhaustion crashes over him, testing the tenuous support of his legs.

 

It turns out they’re not up to the challenge. Having little say in the matter, Nico finds himself sliding slowly down the wall to sit on the chilled concrete. His forehead falls forward to rest on his bent knees.

 

His blood hums loudly in his ears; a frigid layer of sweat pops on the back of his neck. If everything would just stop spinning he knows he’ll be okay; another minute and he’ll lift his head, get up and find the damn car. He curses his weakness even as he’s uselessly overwhelmed by it.

 

The fucking bullet hadn’t even gone through.

 

Nico’s sense of time is as faulty as his balance, and it’s possible he loses a few minutes out here in the dark. The next thing he’s aware of is a voice speaking softly nearby, male and concerned and far too close. He wrenches his eyes open, forces his head up. It’s several long seconds before the sloshing settles enough for him to be able to make out who it is.

 

TK. Fantastic.

 

He’s on the phone, and there’s a rush of something too near to panic when Nico thinks he may be calling for an ambulance. After all the effort he’s put into keeping the both the police and the team out of this, it would be ridiculous to bring them into things now. He opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips, is about to try again. When TK’s words start filtering through to his befuddled brain.

 

“I dunno, Doctor D, I mean, he doesn’t look _good_ …”

 

Shit. Shit shit shit.

 

The true understanding of who’s on the other end of the line sends another bolt of adrenaline straight up to his skull, and he’s working to get his legs under him before he even knows it’s his plan. The sidewalk tips in a way concrete definitely shouldn’t do, and he vaguely registers TK saying, “Hang on, Doc, he’s – Yo, Nico, take it easy, man..“ before everything lurches again and there’s a firm grip holding tight to his arm.

 

At least he’s up now. Off the damn sidewalk.

 

He tries to shake TK off, but the fingers encircling his arm refuse to budge. Maybe for the best – he’s having more than a little difficulty deciding which way is supposed to be up. His thoughts are woolen, soft and stuck together, and all he really knows with any certainty is that this is wrong. Wrong to let TK see him like this. Wrong to be disturbing her again. He’s fine. Will be fine. Nobody need be imposed upon by this. Nico’s always fine on his own in the end.

 

“Yeah, ok,” TK’s saying. “Lemme call you back.”

 

He tries again to claim back his arm, and this time TK lets him go. But he’s got his full attention now, the phone dangling forgotten in his hand. Nico swallows against the bile in his throat, and somehow manages to find his voice. “What’re you doing out here?”

 

“Hey man, I got the same question.” The other man narrows his eyes, the hint of a teasing smile wanting to play at his lips. “You drunk, Sneako?”

 

Why does everyone keep assuming this? It isn’t as if any of them have seen him take so much as a drink. “No,” he says, and TK’s almost-smile immediately disappears.

 

“Ok, then… what’s up? You ok? I mean, I come around the corner and you’re passed out on the sidewalk…”

 

“Why are you out here?” he asks again. As if it’s important. He can’t seem to move on to anything else. It’s too hot, and he lifts his heavy left hand up to pull at the buttons of his collar. He thinks this brick wall under his shoulder might quickly be becoming his new best friend.

 

“Somebody said there was trouble. Came out to see if I could help.” Nico’s incredulously raised eyebrow is only mental. “Found you instead.”

 

Now his brain wakes up enough to remember that there _is_ something important, a thread he needs to follow. “And you called Doctor Santino.” He sees her flinching away from him, and it’s the same as a punch to the gut. “Why? You shouldn’t ha-”

 

“Dude, Nico… Who else was I going to call? I don’t know any of your shady friends. ‘Sides, Doctor D’s practically on my speed dial.” TK ducks his head a little. “Just kinda happened, you know?”

 

The interminable bass from the club is still throbbing in his bones. He needs to… what? Something that’s far away from here.

 

“So, uh… are you ok, man? Cuz, frankly, you don’t look so hot. And the doc’s waiting for me to call her back –“

 

This gets his notice, sharpens his focus a little. “What did you tell her?” he demands, trying to sound more dangerous than he feels.

 

If he’s interpreting the expression right, TK doesn’t appreciate his tone. “Oh, I dunno - how are you, nice night we’re having… Nico’s passed out on the sidewalk _and I don’t know what the fuck to do_.” The younger man glares at him.

 

Nico returns it, or at least attempts to. “Call her back, tell her you exaggerated.” Tell her to go back to bed. Tell her not to worry. “Make it convincing.”

 

TK looks down at his phone, back up at Nico. “What if I’m not convinced?”

 

Nico turns his back on him, sizing up the distance between here and his own phone. “Not your problem. Convince _her_.”

 

The phone could be forty feet away for all that he wants to go get it. Nico stares at it - as if he can somehow _will_ it toward him - but the phone stubbornly remains where it is. He sighs, sending a ripple of pain down his side. All in all, this is not turning out to be his best week.

 

“I dunno, maybe a trick of the light?” TK is saying behind him, and Nico finds the strength from somewhere to roll his eyes. No way is she going to buy that, and then she’s going to want to talk to him…

 

And now she apparently does indeed want to talk to him, because TK’s here in front of him again, offering the phone. Holding it out to him with eyes practically begging Nico to take it off his hands. Nico scowls at him, the protest from his wound when he snatches away the phone only deepening the expression. At least he’d grabbed it with his right hand – it’s doing him no favors in the discomfort department, having to hold his arm up like this, but he can’t imagine TK would appreciate the smear of his bloody prints as a souvenir. His fingers feel sticky, and he shoves his left hand into his pants pocket.

 

“Nico?” she’s already asking, as he gets the phone to his ear. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”

 

She’s working hard to keep her voice level, he thinks, and even through his fog he senses a little waver to the words. He lets her concern wrap warm around the inside of his head, for just a moment pretending that it’s personal. That she wouldn’t have as much worry in her voice for anyone else right now, that she wouldn’t care just as much no matter who she had on the other end of this line. He can feel her fingers on his skin, trembling and ephemeral. Her voice comes again, and he realizes he’s closed his eyes.

 

“Nico?”

 

“Nothing’s going on, Doctor.” He wishes his voice didn’t sound so papery thin. TK’s moved a few steps away, purporting separation but clearly listening. “Everything’s fine -” he winces as he hears it slip out, hurries on. “TK’s had a little too much tonight. He’s confused.” It’s flimsy and Nico knows it, but he’s really got nothing else. He’s sure she’s replaying last night as he is, what of it he can recall. Knows she’s far too perceptive to be swayed by any of this.

 

TK knows it too, even without any awareness of the events of the last two days - the look he throws Nico’s way blatantly saying such. Nico turns his back to him again, slumping tiredly against the wall.

 

“ _Bullshit_ ,” she says vehemently in his ear, and he’s trying to remember if he’s ever before heard her swear. “It’s after midnight, and I’ve got TK calling me telling me you’re unconscious in the street? I’ve never heard him so freaked out, Nico, and, to be honest, it’s kinda freaking _me_ out…”

 

He hears her composure crack and fail, watches it crumble like he can see her words writing and erasing themselves on the air. She must be exhausted, he thinks, for her to let herself admit that. _Tough tiny Danielle_ …

 

He can only hope he didn’t say that out loud.

 

But there’s no explosion or other reaction, and he realizes she’s waiting for him to respond. “I’m sorry he called you. Every- there’s nothing to worry about.” He feels like a broken record. “Go back to bed,” he says, so quietly that he’s not sure it’s really even said.

 

She takes a breath, an audible reset. “Where are you?” she asks, pulling back together her practiced calm. “What happened?”

 

He can picture her face, the serious features. Her eyebrows coming to a sharp angle in her worry, her lips twitching slightly as she tries to suppress her frown. She’s never able to completely hide her feelings, not even with her smoothest expression of therapist equanimity. She’s got too much emotion in her for that, feels things too strongly.

 

Which is exactly why it’s so wrong for him to add himself to her already lengthy list of concerns. “Going to see that TK gets home,” he tells her, not true and not really any kind of answer. He only wants to get off the phone. “We can talk tomorrow.”

 

“You sound terrible,” she says softly, and here’s that warm rush again, that flickering fantasy that all this concern is for him alone. “Maybe you should reconsider –“

 

“No hospital.” He says it without thinking, flinching at TK’s sudden new laser focus. A stare he can feel boring into the back of his neck. He shouldn’t have said that. His side feels stretched and raw, furious at the way this position continues to pull at the damage; he isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to be able hold it.

 

The skin of his unshaven face finds the bumpy wall, the pinpricks of irritation in his bruised jaw almost a comfort when held up against the yawning rent of all the other pain. Exhaustion drags at him, ghostly hands fumbling, relentlessly trying to pull him back down to the ground.

 

“I’m coming over there. Where are you?”

 

“No.” Even he’s surprised at how firm is, how definite. He straightens up against his favorite wall, as if she can see him. Like he’s trying to prove the point. “No, there’s nothing for you to do here, Doctor,” he says, this time able to level out most of the emotion. He’s probably not racking up any favor points with his continued use of her title over her name, but Nico’s well aware that TK’s still behind him, absorbing every word.

 

Besides, keeping things professional here might just be the only way he’s going to get through this. Because there’s a tiny hurting wiped-out part of him that just wants to sit back down and say yes. To give her the address and let her come.

 

This thought is stamped down hard as soon as Nico recognizes it, and he searches for a way to end this discussion. “I’ll have TK call you,” he tells her, sweeping an arm across their conversation in an effort to scatter its pieces. “And there’s something else we might need to keep an eye on. I’ll fill you in later.”

 

“Nico…”

 

It’s all layering down on him now, weighted and suffocating and grey. His side spits fury with every breath. He knows from past experience that he’s probably not going to be on his feet much longer. “Good night, Doctor,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

 

“She’s going to be pissed,” TK says behind him, parroting Nico’s thoughts exactly.

 

“Shut up.” There’s no energy behind it. Nico turns himself back around, a simple motion that feels far too awkward. He hands TK back his phone. “Don’t you have a date?”

 

TK’s eyebrows shoot upward at this reminder. “Oh shit, yeah…” He starts to turn away, turns back. It’s obvious that he can’t decide what to do. Nico draws a breath, about to encourage him to go enjoy his night - to get him the hell out of here - when TK surprises him. “Lemme just go tell her. Grab the digits. You’ll be here when I come back out?”

 

For a moment this is far too confusing, a strain on his limited processing skills. TK was supposed to take the bait, to get lost. He’d swear the other man was usually more easily distracted than this. “What?” It sounds stupid. Flat.

 

“Jesus, Nico…” TK’s shaking his head. “I dunno what - Nevermind. Stay here.”

 

And now he’s gone.

 

This definitely isn’t the way this is supposed to go.

 

Nico’s eyelids droop dangerously; it’s enough to straighten him up again, an intentional prodding at the gash in his side giving him a short burst of painful adrenaline. Time to get out of here. Preferably before TK gets back. Too bad he really can’t remember where he parked his car.

 

The thought of wandering the streets looking for a black sedan in the dark leaves him standing in the same place a bit longer.

 

An echo of his name in her voice drifts unexpected and sweet through his mind, the two syllables tender and feathery. A memory of small soft fingers, wiping clean the blood from his skin. Nico rubs at his eyes, takes a rough breath.

 

First things first. He’s got to get to his phone.

 

There’s only numb resignation as the world shifts out from under him this time, the vicious vertigo by now coming as no surprise. It seems to take forever to close the short distance, to bend carefully down and somehow find his way back up, his movements stuttered to the speed of an old man’s. But he accomplishes it, and a wisp of a sardonic smile tugs his lips when the act brings with it a microscopic twinge of pride.

 

He supposes it’s something.

 

But a look at the broken screen tells him that not only has the phone been damaged, it seems he’s somehow let the battery run down as well. God he’s off his game today, this something he _never_ allows to take place. Nico stares dumbly at the useless piece of plastic. Like he’s waiting for something to happen.

 

Such as an inexplicable power surge, returning to him his contact list and what may be his only hope tonight for a ride home. He curses how easy it is to load all the important information into this compact device, downloading it from his brain and generally deleting the file. There was a time when he would have _known_ all his important phone numbers. Held them in his mind instead of in his hands.

 

Nico closes his fist around the phone, the late night declining to offer up any suggestion.

 

No, wait, he’s not thinking – it’s easier than all of this. He just needs to pull himself together and head back around the block, and he’ll be comfortably ensconced in a cab and on his way home before he even knows it. His own car can be dealt with tomorrow, along with everything else. He pretends he feels better, now that he’s got a plan.

 

It carries him a few steps along in his intended direction, but now here’s TK already coming back around the corner to stop short and surprised in his path. Nico finds it hard to believe that he’s been gone long enough – surely he only just left?

 

The flow of time is thick liquid tonight, gloopy and clumping and in some spots dripping through.

 

A new flood of tingling weakness almost buckles his knees. TK starts to reach for him; Nico recovers enough to wave him away. “Leave it,” he breathes, before the other man can say anything. “Going home.” His mouth has trouble shaping the words, the complexities of complete sentences apparently beyond him.

 

“Good plan,” TK nods, eyeing him with open wariness. “Lucky for you, I drove tonight. My car’s just –“

 

“Cab.”

 

“Uh-uh. No way. As much as I would like to go back inside – believe me – and finish my night, Doctor D would _kill_ me if I left you like this without making sure you get where you need to go. Hell, from the sound of that conversation, she just might kill me for even knowing you. Collateral damage.”

 

A part of his mind sets off trying to retrace the phone conversation, struggling to piece together what it is that TK thought he heard. He’d tried to keep things professional, with no hint of their last shared two days. What was it that made him think she’d care so much? Nico fights to focus, realizing that this is less important at the moment than the absurd role-reversal of this scene. TK’s going to make sure he gets home. The implied helplessness crawls unpleasantly over his skin.

 

This night most definitely needs to end.

 

“Call a cab,” he says again, and again TK shakes his head. Nico has the sudden urge to punch him in his stubborn, shadowed face. An impulse made ridiculous in light of the fact that right now he barely lift his arm.

 

“Nico, it’s like one AM. You know how long it’s gonna take to get a cab down here?”

 

Abruptly the fight drains out of him; he simply can’t argue any more. “Fine,” his voice betrays, and maybe TK brightens a little in a small, unexpectedly victorious smile. “Let’s go.” There seems little option now but to embrace his surrender.

 

“Right,” TK says. “Come on.” And he leads the way off down the street.

 

To say they walk for miles, Nico knows, must be a gross exaggeration; still the knowledge does nothing to dispel the impression. His shirt feels weighted and glued to him wherever it meets his skin, and he can’t help but sneak a hand under his jacket for another pointless poke at the injury. No surprise to find it still hurts; no surprise to find he’s still bleeding. He wipes his red-smudged fingers on the soft silk, already well aware the shirt is a hopeless cause.

 

“So… what’s with the hospital?” TK cuts through his thoughts, the tall man a dark shape in his narrowing peripheral vision.

 

“Don’t need a hospital,” Nico mumbles automatically, the words tripping lazily over themselves. It sounds wooden, oft repeated, and he’s not sure TK’s even heard. Doesn’t much care. He honestly can’t remember the last time he was this tired.

 

“Yeah, heard that the first time.” He imagines he can feel TK’s gaze slip sideways in his direction. Keeps his own focus on the sidewalk that’s undulating beneath his feet. “It’s just that… I dunno, it kinda seemed like maybe Doctor D thought you needed one.”

 

It’s tentative, yes, but spoken aloud, and Nico wonders when he started giving TK the mistaken idea that he was looking for friend tonight. That it would be welcome to share personal space. He senses that TK too is uncomfortable with this shift in their habitual roles, but still he’d felt comfortable enough on some level to ask. It grates at Nico – though he can’t immediately say why - and he doesn’t bother to respond.

 

A disturbingly vivid image of himself wearing a sign that reads _Free Hugs!_ jumps startlingly forefront into his mind. He stumbles when the toe of his shoe snags on a crack that isn’t really there.

 

“Almost there, man,” he might have heard TK say; Nico’s focus is elsewhere, working to marshal the rest of his energy together into keeping himself off the ground. He feels pathetic and wrung out, but there’s no spark in him left to be disgusted. One foot in front of the other. For this moment it’s the best he can do.

 

One foot.

 

Now the other.

 

Her ghost whispers his name again, velvety and textured and low in his ear. It’s different this time, embellished with a tantalizing promise, and a shiver that has nothing to do with temperature or pain sneaks spidery down his spine. He’s never heard her shape his name like that, at least not in the reality of day, but somehow he knows this exactly how it would sound. Rich with mocha cream, achingly full of feeling. Husky and feminine and undeniable. He can smell her shampoo, light and fresh and worryingly real out here in the city night air; remembers the glint of the streetlight on her neck and chest when he’d lifted his head to find her standing in the street by his car. Illumination made material, caressing fingers of sparkling light dancing their way over her smooth exposed skin. He can still taste the moment’s compelling distraction, his inability to break the spell. Last night may be predominately hazy, but he can definitely recall the fleeting desire he’d had to follow the trail of those imaginary glimmering fingers. To trace their patterns into her skin with his tongue.

 

He’s lost for a while in this as he moves unevenly along, without the power to jump tracks in his brain even if he’d had more of an inclination to do so. TK’s mostly forgotten beside him. He studies the retained reflection of her eyes in the memory of a dimly lit bathroom mirror.

 

But here something shifts, a rift in the fabric of this fantasy. Nico’s attention slips unwanted down the shoulders of this conjured vision, down bare arms to the mottled bruising that part of him knows will be waiting at her wrists. Angry smoldering finger-shaped marks, marring the perfection of her skin. They wrap condemningly around her smaller, more fragile bones. With a spacing that’s unique to his hand.

 

The picture slams into him hard, both in this world and that, jarring him back into his body. He’s totally unprepared for this new, abrupt disorientation - an jagged-edged unbalance both emotional and physical - and his stomach pulses inarguably against the back of his closing throat.

 

“Hang on,” he hears himself grind out to no one through tightly clenched teeth. Like someone excusing themselves casually, briefly, from a room. Nico staggers a few steps away around a corner, clutching at both this new stuccoed wall and his side while his empty stomach struggles to turn itself inside out. There’s nothing to bring up, but his abused body is too stupid to know this. He hopes TK kept walking, that he’s waiting some distance ahead…

 

A long blink; a gap in the streaming of time. He’s sitting now, but not on the ground. His black shoes are dark against the pavement, but he’s sitting on something soft. Yielding.

 

Nico lifts his eyes from his feet. There’s an open car door in front of him.

 

It filters through to him that he’s surrounded by a vehicle shell of metal, slumped mostly in the leather passenger seat of a parked car. Not his car. Now it rushes in with a terrifying flash that he has no idea how he _got_ to this car, how he made it from there to here. Wherever it is that here might be. Nico grabs for the top of the open door, needing to get to his feet.

 

He misses, and - despite the overwhelming _unacceptability_ of the situation - he has to consciously try to summon the strength to make a second attempt. He hasn’t quite gotten this far when TK’s voice floats by and into his fractured focus. The other man doesn’t seem to be talking to him. Nico’s eyebrows pull in tight together in his concentration, his brain striving to force the murmured words into some kind of a comprehensible form.

 

He realizes TK must be on the phone again. His frustration escapes in a groan.

 

Now another unnerving tear in the fabric of his night, and he only understands that he must have momentarily checked out again when hand on his arm opens eyes he didn’t know he had closed. Delicate fingers resting light on his coat, a hand far too small and fair to be TK’s. Nico drags his eyes up to her face, already sure who it will be.

 

 

So maybe he checked out for more than a moment then.

 

Now the _wrongness_ of this comes back with a sucker punch to his jaw, but Nico finds that all he can muster up in response is a fuzzy and dim-witted frown. He can’t quite get his head around her presence here, isn’t entirely certain that he’s not still interacting with her ghost in the privacy of his head. But her hand on his arm seems real enough, and if he squints he can almost make out TK standing a few feet behind.

 

The scent of shampoo tickles at his nose. Her grip tightens when his eyelids slip defiantly.

 

“Hey hey hey,” she breathes, trying to coax him back awake. He wants to comply, but will alone is not enough to win this battle. Now her tone changes, sharpening to a point that’s honed by something that might be fear. “Come on, Nico, talk to me. Or I swear to god I’m calling for an ambulance.”

 

It’s enough snap his stretchy attention back, for now enough to pry open his eyes. Though he can’t seem to lift them from her arm next to his, can’t break away from the bruises he can see even through the opacity of her sleeve. She shouldn’t be here; he wants to tell her so. The harsh marks he’s left on her skin shout at him in the silence of the street.

 

“What-?” he forces out, though he isn’t sure what it is that he’s asking. Dani doesn’t seem to know either, but she’s studying his face for some clue.

 

He wishes he could help her with this.

 

A deliberate breath brings pain but more direction, a temporary spike bolstered by agony’s artificial energy. Nico feels like he should be standing, the one taking charge. His body will only oblige in so far as helping him to uncurl minutely in the seat. It’s a feeble achievement at best.

 

“I’m going to drive you home,” she says, as if this has already been decided. Nico wants to protest, but there really doesn’t seem to be any purpose. At least she’d said _home_ and not _hospital_. “Can you get up?” she asks him.

 

“…course…” he mumbles, not having any idea if it’s true.

 

In the end he manages it more easily than he would have estimated if asked, annoyed by the way they hover around like he’s some kind of breakable china. Her car is pulled up directly behind TK’s; Nico presses his forehead against the smooth icy metal of its roof, fists deep in his pockets, waiting while the two exchange words. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but the sound of their voices roll over his head. Nico wonders vaguely if he’ll ever have any authority over TK again after this.

 

Her hand’s on his shoulder; she presses a button to unlock the car door. Nico lifts his head, but he hesitates before getting in. “Gonna ruin your car,” he eventually gets out, holding up his left hand when he sees her confusion. The drying blood rusty and flaking over his fingers. There’s a flicker of something that crosses her face, but it’s gone before he can catch it. She pulls an old beach towel from somewhere, draping it over the seat.

 

It occurs to him to wonder about the state of TK’s car, but right now he can’t really seem to be bothered. Nico watches distantly through the windshield as Dani stops to say something else to the star player, her hand lingering comfortingly on his arm. When she gets in, he’s struck by how strange it seems to be here and not behind the wheel. He’s accustomed to her being to his right when they’re together in a car. It feels wrong to have her on the other side.

 

Wrong wrong wrong. It appears to be the theme of his night.

 

She needs little help from him to find the way to his apartment - her GPS able to do at least most of the work - but Dani seems compelled to keep him awake anyway. Nico tries to accommodate, though his half of the conversation is mostly held up with grunting and the occasional murmured short answer. He watches her eyes in the rearview mirror, darting his direction whenever she thinks he’s looked away. He wonders if she intends to follow him inside when they get there.

 

An image comes of laying wrapped tangled around her, content and comfortable in luxury of his big bed.

 

Nico shifts his gaze out the window, grateful that they’re almost there. He rests the side of his head against the cold glass; the vibrations of the car channel into his body through this bit of skin, competing with the remembered bass that still echoes. Right now he wishes there was some way he could get out of ever having to spend time in a club again. It feels like this beat is never going to leave him alone.

 

By the time he directs her into the underground parking for his building, he’s fading quickly. No hope for another rebound this time – his body is telling him loudly and final that he needs to lie down before it _shuts_ down, and that this is something it plans to do soon. The doorman greets him mechanically – this guy’s new, and Nico reminds himself that he still wants to check him out – and it’s really only as he crosses the lobby to the elevator that he registers Dani’s still with him. She says nothing as she waits beside him, looking around the entry space. He’s not sure what she thinks the building will tell her.

 

In the elevator Nico braces himself up on his left side, unwilling to risk getting blood on the flawless mirrored walls. Easier to clean than his car, though…

 

Shit, his car. He’s going to be pissed if it gets broken into.

 

These concerns flitter past, unable to draw his dwindling attention for long. When the elevator dings and the doors open onto his floor, he’s almost forgotten where it is that they’re going. His hand is shaking as he tries to unlock his front door; Dani takes the key from him and undoes the locks herself.

 

She still hasn’t said anything.

 

It’s unnatural. While she can usually be still when she needs to be, her basic state strikes him as anything but. He’s used to being told what she’s thinking - something that would really help him out right now, as he’s in no state to decipher it himself. He has no idea what she’s expecting from him here.

 

Onyx appears from the other room to twist her way around his legs, and behind him Dani makes a tiny noise of surprise. At his choice of pet or that he has one at all, Nico wonders, as the cat jumps up to balance on the frame of the sofa beside him. He obligingly scratches the top of her head, throwing a longing glance toward the deep sofa cushions; he knows if he sits down there now, then the sofa will be the place he will stay.

 

So he leaves Dani and his cat to bond as they might, pushing on into the bright glare of his bathroom. His clothing from this morning is on the floor by the shower, still in its discarded pile; Nico ignores it, pulling up the bottom of his second ruined shirt in two days to finally get a look at his side. The bandage is dark and heavy with blood, and the wound is angry and swollen when he peels it away. There’s a broken gasp from the doorway, abruptly squashed. He wishes he’d closed the door when he came in.

 

 

She comes up behind him in the mirror and Nico closes his eyes, this loop he seems trapped inside making even his teeth ache. The stone countertop bites into his hipbone, cool under the flat of his palms.

 

When he opens his eyes he finds her studying him, and he prepares for another revisit to the hospital discussion. But something that he thinks looks close to recognition shifts into her expression, and instead she only says: “I shouldn’t stay – the kids probably heard me leave. Can I do anything before I go?”

 

They look at each other for a long moment, this thick _deja vu_ consoling to neither. Nico presses his hip harder into the counter, his legs growing tired of holding him up. “Feed the cat?” he asks finally, this tiny task suddenly looming insurmountable. “Dry stuff in the cabinet next to the fridge.” She seems relieved to be able to help; he’s happy to get her out of the bathroom.

 

Win win, Nico thinks, stooping awkwardly to fish the first-aid kit out from under the sink. Even for Onyx.

 

He manages to get himself cleaned up and rebandaged before she returns, the ruined shirt and his suit jacket tossed carelessly to add to the heap on the floor. He’ll deal with it tomorrow. He’s most likely going to have to head back to the offices, he knows, to give the doctor a chance to repair his work - and to do that he’s going to have to call for a car. Or take a cab in the morning, heading to the club first. And risk damaging his clean upholstery.

 

Nico scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, flipping off the bathroom light as he leaves. He finds Dani in the living room, absently petting his attention-driven cat, and as he watches her it occurs to him that this makes twice in two days that he’s been alone with her without his shirt on. Something of a jump from their previous working relationship. And him without the energy to explore any of the possibilities. So unfair.

 

“What?” She’s looking up at him, a tired smile touching her lips, and Nico wonders what expression she thinks she’s seen on his face. His hand comes up on its own to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

 

The unexpected gesture freezes them both for a heartbeat, before his focus and hand are dragged quickly back to the cat. If there’s ever going to be a time for this, it certainly won’t be tonight. The room rocks around him, the thick carpet shivering under his feet.

 

“Nothing,” he says, answering a question already forgotten. Onyx tips her head, urging his fingers under her chin. “Thank you.”

 

Nico gets the sense she wants to say something else, can practically hear the noise buzzing through her head. Unless that’s just him. He doesn’t want to play this game any more. Just wants to go to bed.

 

“Call me tomorrow,” is what she eventually says, and he looks up to see her moving toward the door. He follows, holds it open for her. When she turns back suddenly, she’s virtually in his arms. Her body heat curls against his bare skin. “Nico, I …“

 

But the thought goes unfinished, and a little part of him relaxes in relief. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear how that sentence ends. Dani shakes her head and chews at her lower lip, ducking away a few steps into the hall. She turns to go. Turns back. Eyes the elevator like she’s plotting an escape; eyes back to him like there’s going to be something more. He can do little more than watch this mini war of indecision, slumped here against the doorframe. A few silent seconds later and she’s got her finger on the button for the elevator, one last look sent his way before she’s gone.

 

Nico sighs, heads back inside. Locks the front door. The air in here whispers the scent of her shampoo. He kicks off his shoes on the way to the bedroom, remembering only at the last minute that crashing face-first onto his bed will do nothing good for his remaining stitches. He slides carefully under the sheets instead, and Onyx settles elegantly onto the pillow beside him.

 

He doesn’t know it, but he’s asleep before Dani even makes it out of the garage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

end.

 

 

 

 


End file.
